Get Over
by Youko-Kokuryuuha
Summary: I was trying, really trying... I was desperately trying to forget and erase all the pain until it was gone. But I couldn't. Life wasn't some crappy drawing you could erase or crumple up and throw away after you screwed up– The wanderings of a nomadic PKK.
1. Motif I: Bitter

A/N: Wewt, my first .hack fic. This, dear readers, is the result of me playing Crossfade's "So Cold" back to back with Lil Wayne's "Get Over," _obsessively_. Expect sudden outbreaks of emo moments and angry, misunderstood violence, et cetera. Yesh. It's set during those angst-y months in Roots, where our lovable PKK trotted around like an empty shell.

On a different note: I've had this typed in advance, so I should be able to update every two to three weeks.

But enough of my rambling. Warnings, disclaimers (I, of course, own no part of the .hack franchise and because of that will roll in my grave some eighty years from now), the usual. The rest is for you guys to enjoy.

(Waitwaitwait: thanks goes out to the incredible Kaj-Nrig for beta-ing! M'kay, now I'm done. :B)

* * *

It started after the Painful Forest and hasn't stopped since. I hear it all the time: when the wind blows, there's a faint whisper. It's their names, over and over again, like some painful hymn that catches in the air and pounds on my ears. It's probably the black armor.

I'm angry and sad a lot of the time now, like something inside of me is unwilling to rest, is unwilling to forget the pain of loss. It pricks like little black roses, with bitter thorns that are angry because the bud is wilting.

Yeah, it's probably the armor.

Something about it is infuriated with The World, infuriated that it dangled hope in front of me like a ball of yarn in front of a kitten before yanking it away and laughing. It's angry at the scorn, angry that The World is so cruel. That's why it–we–can't let go. It's why it keeps whispering their names softly to the gentle caress of the wind.

Ovan...Shino...Tri-Edge...

* * *

__

Get Over

**Motif I: Bitter**

* * *

The soft twilight kisses the ground red here, apparently to try and make the harsh cliffs look less threatening; it doesn't work. Sure, they look beautiful, promising even, with the sun and red stone and all... but then there's the jagged cliffs with their dark depths, and you have no idea what's in there, what's happening under the surface.

__

Ovan...

I smile bitterly as the name echoes aloud in the billowing wind. Ovan was–_is_–practically a personification of this place. He was the Brigade's leader, always there, always offering hope, but we never knew what he was thinking, what he was planning. Then there was that incident with TaN and Naobi and Ender, and all of a sudden he disappeared.

The bastard.

Everyone's gone: the Brigade's disbanded and drifted apart, she's _in a coma_, and where is he? Is he celebrating greedily with the Key of Twilight? Did something happen to him? Should I even _care_? It's not like he's here, because he wasn't here for any of us.

He wasn't there when Tri-Edge attacked. He wasn't there when she became Lost right in front of my eyes. He wasn't there when I braved the Painful Forest for the sake of desperate hope, for a shot at luck.

He didn't get cursed with this damn armor.

I look in disdain at the black grooves plating my body and flex a hand and wriggle the fingers before my eyes. The armor is heavy on me, on my heart. It makes me bitter, and I know it. I'm restless and angry and sad and broken and I don't know why.

Sometimes I think Ovan wouldn't have wanted things to turn out this way, that he would've put everything on the line to save her and bring us all back together by some mysterious, unexpected way like he always did. He would've brought life back into a game that had died for me a long time ago. I think that, sometimes, but that doesn't make it true. Even if he could come back now, what could he do?

Not that I'd be willing to find out. I'd be too busy clawing out his eyes for turning his fucking back on us to really give him a chance or hear a single word.

A sour taste rolls in my mouth, somewhere beyond the rosy-hued cliffs, and I swallow spit. I feel it roll down the back of my dry throat, soothing it for a moment before disappearing further down and leaving me with the dry burning. There to calm you one moment, gone the next. Ovan was a lot like that, too.

I rise from my perch on a cracked stone and begin my aimless trudge through the blushed sand. I don't really expect to find anything here. A few beasts, maybe, but I steer clear of them. I don't fight monsters anymore; fighting monsters is for leveling, and that was something I'd forgotten about a long, long time ago.

The wind rises and sweeps through a few silver strands of my hair as flecks of sand dot my face.

I don't want to think about it, about any of it. I just want to stay here and be empty, be free from all the memories that hurt and hurt like pieces of broken orange glasses and hurt like the throbbing of a broken heart.

I don't want to feel anything but my M2D on my face and this heavy black armor that I shouldn't feel in the first place, this heavy black armor that reminds me of everything without reminding me of anything at all.

I don't really know where I'm going as I stumble through the storm of dusty red; I just know that I'm going somewhere, and hoping and thinking stupidly that I'll find him, that everything will change and get better.

But it's just a stupid thought.

The storm kicks up again, angry and twisting, because it just refuses to die down and give up like everything else has, like I have. I squint a bit through the clumps of grit and make out the sun's warm red glow reflecting off a slab of smooth rock. Except it's a huge slab of rock, maybe bigger than me, all glowing orange and yellow and red and pulsing like he sun.

But it isn't the sun.

I blink, slowly and purposefully, because I don't want to believe it's there. I want to stop and turn around and just pretend I never saw it, but my stupid, stupid feet keep going, and it's glaring up at me, three deep gouges of the fiercest orange, yellow, and red I've ever seen.

And suddenly I'm burning all over again, burning deep, deep scarlet and ashen, ashen black as it all comes back, as I feel all the old emotions dredge up again and swallow me whole. I'm angry and I'm furious and I'm shaking with rage. I want to strike out at somebody, I want to tear someone apart, I want to tear _Ovan_ apart for turning his back on us and disappearing, for flicking us off and telling us to deal with our own problems because they weren't his anymore. I want to tear him apart for–

"Turn around nice and slow and give us all your items," a voice tells me as the cool barrel of a bayonet presses against the back of my head. The voice is female, and it's smug like it's just caught some poor sucker who's about to get slaughtered out here in this open empty field with no one around to witness it or come to the rescue.

"And make it quick, or she'll knock the brains out the back of your neck." This one's a guy, and he sounds like he's the happiest guy in The World, all glowing with pride and indulged in his own façade of menacing tones.

The girl snickers. "Cut it out, Alpher. Hey, newb, listen up: we two PKs are the law here, and we'll kill you if we feel like it. If you make it easy for us and don't put up a fight, we might not kill you, or hurt you at all. Just give us your valuables and walk away."

I don't. I just stand there staring at the burning orange, yellow, and red that's glaring back at me and blinding me with its fierceness. I just stand there with my back to them, because they're not important, they don't matter.

"Hey." I hear Alpher snarl, faintly, and I can tell he's getting impatient. "Don't piss us off. We're not a pair of wimpy wannabe PKs, we're the real deal and we'll kill you without a second thought. Don't fuck with us, kid." His words are cold; he puts his hand on my shoulder and yanks me around to face him, and the movement is like being pulled out of icy water, because I'm not numb anymore. I take them in.

The girl is the Steam Gunner; I can tell because she's the one holding the barrel to my forehead. I glance her up and down and notice the purple corset and black leggings. She sweeps the pink hair out of her green eyes and keeps her pale hand tight around the handle and trigger. The other PK, Alpher, is a Blade Brandier. I see the short bob of silver hair framing his face as I take in the pale, blue, sleeveless shirt and white slacks. His grey eyes narrow as he studies my face and then widen. I see the fear spread on his face and jump to hers.

"Oh, _shit_, Stella, it's the Terror of Death!" I watch as panic settles into them and they begin to shake. "L-listen, we're s-sorry, okay? It was a j-joke, that's all!" His voice quivers as the cowardice takes hold of him.

"Yeah, a joke!" the other PK, Stella, offers. "We d-didn't mean any harm! We were–"

But their stuttered words fall on deaf ears as I slip back into my reverie, because they're not important, they don't matter. I only stare blankly as they turn and run, as both of them scramble pathetically to get in front of the other, because neither of them wants to die. I think of the burning orange, yellow, and red and how bitter it made me, and suddenly remember the cold, cold steel in my left hand, whose blade hums like Death when it glides through the air.

I don't blink as I bring 'Death' down.

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**-End Motif-**

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	2. Motif II: Helpless

A/N: Second chapter already, peoples... or, for anyone reading at all.

Ah, well. Enjoy to your heart's content, and don't forget to review.

* * *

_Get Over_

**Motif II: Helpless**

* * *

I'm standing here on this ledge, listening to the trickling and babbling of the cool clear water of Arche Koeln as it gushes in beautiful walls around me. I'm standing here, waiting for the soothing feeling to sweep over me and take me away, make me feel better and wipe me clean of this pulsing rage and anger that's throbbing in my chest like its own little organ. I'm waiting for the calm to come like it always did when I was with her.

_Shino..._

But it's not going to come, because the soothing water was never really what had soothed me at all. It was her, and she's not here now. She's not here because I was too weak to do anything to save her. I was useless, I was helpless, to do anything but watch as she faded right in front of my burning eyes.

I bang my head against my palm and try to shake the thought. It won't help me, not when I'm trying to forget the burning orange, yellow, and red, not when I'm being a coward and running from my failure.

Not when the burning orange, yellow, and red is glaring up from the damn ground behind me.

I shake a bit, because I know if I turn around and see it again, in this place that it shouldn't be, I'll lose it. I don't want to lose it, because I'm already fighting so hard to keep the grains of bitter salt from slipping through the cracks and out of sight. I'm fighting when it'd be easier to just give up and forget. Forget about PKs, Shino, The World and burning orange, yellow, and reds–

I Gate Out.

My head's spinning, and I want to grab at it and rake those thoughts from my mind, want to dig under the black armor, under the silver hair and rip the dangling pieces apart so they can never come back.

I barely notice Mac Anu buzzing around me as my fingers lock in some random field and ribbons of blue cover my eyes, lace me whole and take me away. I only notice the throbbing in my chest as the images flicker in my head, images of my greatest failure, my biggest mistake–

I take a deep breath and gasp in lung-fulls of cool air. I look up: the sky's a pale blue, with little lumps of cotton askew here and there, boring white against a startling blue canvas. I have to blink a bit to adjust to the sun's bright glare, but eventually I see again.

There are flowers. Lots of pale blue, pink, yellow and white flowers, dotting the tall grass as the green stalks rub eagerly against my legs. I turn my eyes and see a shore. I hear the steady and even ebb of a tide as the crystal clear water laps against the bank.

It's peaceful here, calm and serene and innocent. I sigh and let the breeze roll onto my face and pull its fingers delicately through my hair. I swirl the cool air against my tongue in gratitude and gaze up into the blue abyss. The white puffs don't mar it at all.

She would've liked it here.

I nearly choke on the dry air in my throat at the thought. I feel the melancholy settle back into me, into my bones and heart, feel my shoulders slump down with its weight. It's a reminder from the armor, a black mark on my psyche that screams and shrieks to anything that will listen that it's all my fault. Completely my fault for being there, holding her in my arms, and still being unable to do anything at all to save her, to save the woman I lov–

Powerless. _Helpless_.

I grit my teeth at the words, but don't argue. I know it's true. I know that I was useless, powerless, and completely helpless to do anything but watch her peel apart, data fragment by damn sparkling data fragment. But that's changed. It's come with a steep price–I flex my hand–but I'm not powerless. Not anymore.

I slow the heaving of my chest, because I don't want to get caught up in all the heartache again. I don't want to be reminded that it's my fault, or how sickeningly weak I was.

But I can't help but wonder, morbidly, if she hates me. I wonder if she blames me, too, if she thinks that I should've done something more than hold her and cry pathetically like a helpless child. I wonder if she's realized how worthless I am, or how much of a hindrance I was, how much I held her back and depended on her because I was too weak and helpless–

But I'm not now.

I bury the thought as I wade through the field of flowers, as I wade closer to the shore to hear the calming waves. I hear the plod of my feet as flowers scrunch softly underneath me, and I push the pale blue, pink, yellow, and white aside, because I want to lose myself in them, because I want–

My foot catches on something and I stumble into the grass.

I push myself up onto the palm of my hands and see the still grey body lying beside me in the field of flowers. It's a Shadow Warlock, and her eyes are wide open in shock. I spare a look around the field. There are no monsters; she was PK'd.

I look away from the PC, who looks soft and tiny in death, and allow my thoughts to wonder.

I've already failed miserably. I was trying, I was really trying to get over it. I was desperately trying to forget and erase all the pain until it was gone. But I couldn't. Life wasn't some crappy drawing you could erase or crumple up and throw away after you screwed up. Your mistakes don't go away. They stay, etched into stone and black armor, as a constant reminder of your failures.

I see something out of the corner of my eye and turn. I stare at the PC for a while, even though I know she's gone. I stare into her empty grey eyes and see the reflected blue sky in monochrome, the sky they don't see at all.

I blink. I blink because I didn't see what I thought I just saw. But I did, I do. Something in me breaks as I see the tiny glints of blue peel off the grey PC and fill the air. Something in me breaks as I look down and see the burning orange, yellow, and red glaring up at me from under the dwindling grey body, glaring up at me and burning the irises out of my eyes.

I lie there, as the blue water laps softly against the shore, and curl up like a pathetic, helpless child. I lie there, in the field of blue, pink, yellow and white flowers, and cry for a long, long time.

* * *

**-End Motif-**

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	3. Motif III: Unreachable

A/N: Huzzah, the final piece of the prose emerges! Let me ramble no further.

* * *

_Get Over_

**Motif III: Unreachable**

* * *

"I hate you."

The words echo loudly around the quiet, empty cathedral, unheard by anyone but me and the bare altar they're aimed at. They feel good to say, and I relish the vindictive taste in my mouth for a moment. I say it again.

"I hate you," and it is a snarl this time, an angry snarl that nearly tears my throat apart. "Why won't you show your damn face? Are you afraid of me? Are you hiding because you know the Terror of Death is looking for you? Are you cowering, you pathetic bastard?"

I nearly spit the last word out. But it's true. He's hiding, he's afraid, he's pathetic and scared and shaking when he has no right to be, because he's mercilessly killed and destroyed lives,_ real_ lives, so I can't understand why he'd be so afraid of death, not now.

But a part of me doesn't agree. A part of me is laughing at my anger, and it doesn't understand where it's coming from. It mocks the fact that there's no 'proof' of him, that fact that I'm chasing a dream, an imaginary man, a meager three scratches in a game. It mocks the fact that I've allowed the rumors and stories to distort my mind and view of The World.

But it's wrong. It's wrong because I've already seen all the proof I'll ever need, and I know. He's real.

_Tri-Edge._

There's no lingering trail of thought that follows this time. My mind is set, is clear and focused on the truth. My hand is firm on the scythe's handle, and I'm waiting, waiting in the empty cathedral as the sun never sets and strikes the bare altar, where the burning orange, yellow, and red–all the proof I'll ever need–glares up at me.

This was where my world changed. I stumbled in here, helpless and naive, and found her dying. I cried and wept and sniveled, and when she faded away I wandered around The World like some lost idiot without a soul or purpose. I wandered and stumbled and fought for power without ever once gaining it, without ever once becoming any less helpless or weak.

And then the Painful Forest came along.

Everyone was afraid, everyone was terrified that they would die, but I had nothing to be afraid of, nothing to fear: I had already died, months ago. So I tore through the 'fear' and 'terror,' because I knew there was power behind it. And I found it. I found a curse and a gift that would lead me along the path to redemption and vengeance.

But I hadn't found my vengeance, because power could only take me so far. It didn't matter that I was powerful, that I was frightening, that I was the Terror of Death and the slaughterer of PKs, if I couldn't find him. All I could do was wait. So I waited. I waited and I stumbled aimlessly through The World, and I realized that, in the end, nothing had changed. I was still lost. I was still pathetic. I was still helpless. I had gone through hell and desperation, only to come full circle and accomplish _nothing_.

But then Ovan came back.

I was overwhelmed–and a part of me was disgusted by how weak I was in his presence, how desperately glad I was to see him–and chased him like he was a fleeting shadow, because I was afraid he would leave again, leave without telling me anything, without explaining where he'd been or what had happened.

And the condescending bastard smiled. He smiled and turned away. Turned away like he had done so many times before, and told me to _trust and follow him_. I wanted to laugh in derision and mock those words that meant nothing to me now... but I didn't. I followed him, listened to him, and nearly spilled out my heart to him.

_Where were..?Shino's gone!I was so afraid and lost..Please, tell me–do you know?Tri-Edge–!_

And he held up his hand to silence me like a child.

_Do you want to know about Tri-Edge? ...He will be back today, at the scene of the crime._

I didn't need a single word more. I ran, ran like a desperate fool, to catch a man who I was both sure and unsure was real.

But I chased it anyway, because it was all that I had left. It was all the small, dying hope in The World that I had left to cling to.

And now I'm standing here, reminiscing and thinking back on how little I've done and how sickeningly vulnerable I am. I feel rage surge up my throat like fire and spill into my mouth, because I've been led on. There isn't anyone coming. Ovan lied to me, and I've somehow managed to play into his hands like a lapdog, a stupid, _helpless_–

The note sounds and quivers on the air, and I stagger as I hurry to turn around. My heart is beating so fast I think it's going to burst, and I feel like I'm going to die with anticipation, but I don't care. He's here, he's here, he's here, he's _here_, and I'm going to get my chance, I'm going to split him in half and–

I swivel around and the blinding light knocks me off my feet and sends me reeling. But I see him, I see him wrapped in blue flame and wavering like smoke, like he's about to disappear, but I know he won't; I won't give him the chance.

I see it all happening again, months and months of torment and grief, as he loosens his blades. I see wet cheeks and endless nights, empty eyes and bleeding wrists, black steel and burning orange, yellow, and reds as I shake uncontrollably and rake my daggers from their holsters.

"You _bastard!_"

I cover the ground before I can stop myself, before I can think, and my sweaty fingers scream in pain as he stops me cold. But I throw scrape after scrape. I don't stop, I can't, not when I'm so close, so very close to the way things were, to having it all back, to Shino–

He flicks me away like a fly.

I scramble back up from my knees, already choking on the rigid air in my lungs. The steady thrum of my broadsword whizzes like knives in the air as I pull it free and sprint forward. But my arms lock as I hit him again. I look at him, glare at him through the buzzing blades of my sword, and see two cold, empty eyes that couldn't care less about The World.

He flings me back again, and I hit the floor hard, panting. My fingers scrabble blindly as I stagger upward. I can't talk because of the swollen thumping in my throat, I can't make a sound. But he strolls over, slowly and calmly, and I realize how completely inhuman he is.

There's no purpose in his walk. There's no fire in his eyes. There's only the empty gait of a man who has come to do what needs to be done and be off. And I see it now, clearly, the wall of power between us. As tears stream from my eyes and blur my sight, I see that I was never powerful, always helpless, and that he was never in my reach.

But it's not over, not yet, because it _can't_ be.

My trembling fingers draw my scythe again, draw Death, and plunge its cold steely arms into him, like grief and resent and torment. But he breaks it like glass. He breaks Death and my resolve like nothing, and as his hand clutches my face and moistens with my quickening breath, I can't help but break as well. He blows me away with a blare of white light.

I bite down on my lip and feel the warm blood trickle into my mouth. I see him standing over me, gaunt and leering, as he throws his hand into the air. I see the ring of light and data take form around his wrist, hear the crackle as it spins faster and faster, as it stops and the light flares and covers my eyes whole. I scream. I scream and hit the ground with a dull thud.

And then I feel it. I feel the steady rhythm as the black armor is slowly wrenched away, torn apart piece by piece. I see the fragments of my desperate, pathetic, months-long struggle ripped away, and remember bitterly again that he was always out of my reach.

So I lie there, on the cold, stone floor, twitching and squirming, as my only shell and defense breaks and scatters. The mournful music of the place sounds hollowly in my ears, and through my hazy eyes I see a figure. I see it looming in the doorway of the cathedral, watching silently. I see Ovan. Ovan, who knew all along that I never stood a chance. Ovan, who had led me here on purpose. Ovan, who probably didn't care that I was lying on the floor and dying. Ovan, who never gave a hell-scorned damn about anyone at all–

The screen goes blank.

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**-End-**

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A/N: And that, dear readers who stuck around long enough to see the fic through, is the end. It was emo, full of brooding, and a fun change of writing to experience. Nothin' else like broadening your writer's horizon, I say. :p Anywho, glad you guys enjoyed the fic, and if you feel up to it, leave some concrit and whatnot on your way out. Peace, yo.


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